Last Saturday, I was at the theatre with my entire family to watch Saawariya at Vaibhav. My wife — a committed Sanjay Leela Bhansali fan — had been excited ever since I booked the tickets a week in advance. Expectations, as you can imagine, were high.
My six-year-old son didn’t want to come along. He has recently concluded that movies are boring — a dangerous opinion for a child growing up in India. We somehow managed to drag him along.
Sadly, the film only confirmed his premonition.
The core problem with Saawariya is that Bhansali seems to have fallen in love with the Bhansali brand itself. Grandeur is fine — even welcome — but not at the cost of the two things that traditionally work in Bollywood:
- Masala
- Story
Saawariya offers neither in sufficient measure.
There is only so long that visual beauty can hold your attention. Once the novelty wears off, the eye adapts, and the mind starts searching for emotional engagement. Story is king, always — and unfortunately, Saawariya offers very little substance to manipulate, provoke, or involve its audience.
The film feels like a lavishly mounted art installation — stunning to look at, meticulously designed, but emotionally distant. It is cinema that wants to be admired, not felt.
There are, however, two clear saving graces.
The first is the music — haunting, melodic, and unmistakably Bhansali. The songs linger long after the visuals fade, doing much of the emotional heavy lifting that the narrative fails to carry.
The second is Ranbir Kapoor. Watching raw talent announce itself is always a pleasure, and Ranbir shows promise, vulnerability, and ease that feel instinctive rather than rehearsed.
Sonam Kapoor, unfortunately, is let down by a terribly underwritten role. It isn’t her fault. She spends most of the film wearing a perpetually confused expression — which may well be the most honest emotional response to the script itself.
My personal favourite track from the film is the qawwali, Yoon Shabnami — evocative, textured, and emotionally richer than most scenes in the film.
Interestingly, watching Saawariya alongside Farah Khan’s Om Shanti Om makes the contrast painfully clear. One film understands Bollywood’s excess and uses it playfully; the other mistakes excess for depth.
My recommendation is simple: watch Saawariya once — just once — preferably on a big screen where the visuals can at least justify themselves. But do yourself a favour and take the music home with you. The soundtrack deserves a longer life than the film.
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